Don’t you get it, stupid sky? I want the overcast without the rain. Stop this stupid “95 today and wet tomorrow!” business before someone gets hurt. I have your children and I will send them to the coal mines if I don’t start seeing some 68 and foggy in the next 48 hours. This is not negotiable.

Probably for definitelies the best part of communicating with children is trying to figure out what examples to use so as to embed knowledge in their minds most effectively. For instance — Chris asked me this question: “What does Rectify mean?” I know that, in my mind, an easy way to learn its definition is to point out that “correct” and “rectify” share the identical arrangement of four letters — the etymology may not be wholly on my side, but it serves the purpose for the assignment.

Of course, some kids look at me like I’m insane when trying methods like this one. Those are the ones with whom I adopt old Mr. Hanboder’s method of instruction:

(Edit: I didn’t say it at the time, but this was some of what I later used for TST. The “final draft” (mmm…draft…) can be found a few posts after this one. No, I won’t give you a link, you lazy pig.)

Old Mr. Hanboder, by Robert

Old Mr. Hanboder was a man who expected great things. When my parents sent me to work in his wheat fields after I turned ten, I quickly discovered that he saw children much like my Grandpa Abraham did. Just like Grandpa Abe, Old Mr. Hanboder was always willing to tell you a story or two about how hard it was in his day; and just like Grampa Abe, Old Mr. Hanboder always had a wink and a rock to send your way if you stopped cutting the wheat for even a second. The work sure was hard, and the scars may never go away, but I’ll never forget the lesson I learned at Old Mr. Hanboder’s side on the day we buried Jimmy.

As the cardboard coffin tumbled into the pit we had helped Jimmy dig just a few short days before, Old Mr. Hanboder leaned in way close to me and whispered to me, “That’ll be you next week if you don’t start cutting more of my !@#(!@# wheat.”

I only wish Grandpa Abraham had eluded the police long enough to meet Old Mr. Hanboder. I think they would have been the best of friends.

I spoke to everyone imaginable at the La Mirada Olive Festival this weekend, and I was impressed by the fact that the most enjoyable conversation of all was with Councilman Pete Dames, who was more than willing to bring me up to date on everything I could have ever wanted to know about La Mirada. Apparently Beatitudes Church was having their carnival, which really took a lot of the crowd away from the smorgasbord that was the food tent; the boss gave me a punch card to “sample” the food when I arrived to cover the event, which translated into more food than I could ever have wanted after using only 20% of my food credits. There was food there.

Anyway, I quickly recalled how much I do enjoy talking to people after getting over the hump (the first interview is always the toughest — you haven’t really gotten a “feel” for the event in some cases, and what they want to say may not line up with what you’re asking) and striking up a few fun conversations. I talked about classic cars, the economy, local bands, the hardships of owning a business right now and why most of the businesses there were stupid.

It was fun.

However, it would have been a lot more fun if I hadn’t been sick. I donned my standard outdoors disguise for interviewing, but I suspect that my pallor still radiated noticeably in the midst of the waning summer heat. Not that anyone specifically minded, you understand, but still — feeling less than 100% always leaves me wondering if I really performed my duties to the best of my abilities.

Thankfully, I really like to talk about cars. That helped a lot.

At the end of the day, though, I really couldn’t put it any better than Dick Gard the Retired Aluminum Shop Owner did:

My dad has spent the last six weeks or so without a voice. After another one of many procedures on his throat in an effort to slow the progress of his Amyloidosis, he found himself with but a whisper with which to communicate. As a pastor, this also began to raise fears that had remained relatively far from the realm of likelihood since the onset of his disease nearly five years ago.

Seeing my father struggle to be heard because of a vacuum or a passing car was hard. Knowing that his condition was the result of a procedure to restore his voice was one of the most bitter ironies I had witnessed in some time. After going through the fairly difficult process of accepting his hoarse-ish voice as a replacement for that of my father’s over the last few years, I began to sadden every time I thought about how much I had resented his affliction before it became severe.

My mom has been working hard in the midst of a flagging economy to limited success; her hours have seen reductions to the point where she was looking for a new job despite really enjoying what she has now. Her and our prayers were finally answered and fulfilled when she was given enough seniority a few months ago so that she would be able to maintain a worthwhile schedule.

I remember also resenting my mom’s employer over the last year on a number of occasions; her pay was substantially lower than he skill set should have garnered, and her work environment was often maddening. My love for my mother often made it difficult for me to be thankful for a troubling job that my mom needed directly because of my dad’s medical troubles (college is also expensive, apparently).

Now, of course, I can see how weak my faith was in those times. My mom is currently blessed to be working with friends on a regular schedule that puts bread on the table.

Today, my father preached for the first time since that last procedure, having “discovered a voice” that at first sounded much higher than his original “croak” but has since come down to practically normal (for an amyloidosis patient) levels.

As I was sharing a hymnal with my grandma this morning, I wondered how my dad must have been feeling. Surely, he was nervous, wondering if people would really think of his “new” voice as much of an answered prayer at all. Surely, he was apprehensive, wondering if it would hold up to the rigors of a long sermon. Of course, he was faithful and strong, and it seemed to me that his voice rang with a note that echoed what I have heard over the past four years to a nearly exact degree.

My dad preached about Ecclesiastes this morning to a congregation that has supported him in innumerable ways while some of us chose doubt over faithfulness. To be sure, I cannot say that God’s will has finally seen its fulfillment in the matter of my father and his voice. I still pray earnestly for his complete healing and the restoration of his health. In the meantime, however, I could not have received a more blatant reminder to be grateful for what God gives, and to be grateful for everything under the sun that God has given to us. The rather languid tones of Ecclesiastes 8 resonated this morning in an audibly iridescent manner:

14-There is futility which is done on the earth, that is, there are righteous men to whom it happens according to the deeds of the wicked; On the other hand, there are evil men to whom it happens according to the deeds of the righteous. I say that this too is futility.

15So I commended pleasure, for there is nothing good for a man under the sun except to eat and to drink and to be merry, and this will stand by him in his toils throughout the days of his life which God has given him under the sun.

16When I gave my heart to know wisdom and to see the task which has been done on the earth (even though one should never sleep day or night),

17and I saw every work of God, I concluded that man cannot discover the work which has been done under the sun Even though man should seek laboriously, he will not discover; and though the wise man should say, “I know,” he cannot discover.